


You Are John

by Aelfay



Series: Levels!verse [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Emotions, Idiots in Love, Light Angst, M/M, They find their way in the end though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-19
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2019-03-06 22:13:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13420689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aelfay/pseuds/Aelfay
Summary: John wakes up to find no Sherlock in the flat. When he finds him, he realises there are things that shouldn't be left unsaid.





	You Are John

John wakes, feeling something’s off, and frowns. 221B is colder than usual and too quiet. Even when Sherlock is sulking he makes noise. It’s funny because when he first met him in the lab, he’d looked at Sherlock and thought he was a type of sculpture, something that could be moulded or carved and stood in a museum. Sherlock had said sometimes he didn’t speak for days, and John had thought he was right.

He’d never been more wrong. Sherlock was always so very alive, and even when he was supposedly sulking or quiet or thinking, he wasn’t really  _still._ He’d huff and turn over and make the sofa squeak, or his bedsprings would protest as he shifted. The closest Sherlock got to real silence was when he was experimenting, and even then there was the sound of the fridge opening and closing, the clink of glassware.

So at the moment, 221B is far, far too quiet.

John gets up and dresses. He’s learned the hard way that searching for Sherlock undressed was an invitation for a client to see one in one’s pants, so he tries to always go down in at least a robe. He tugs on trousers and a shirt, taking the stairs slowly as he buttons along the way, and pauses in the doorway, scanning the room.

No Sherlock.

The bathroom is open, the kitchen deserted. Sherlock’s room has a closed door, but John can’t hear him, so he’s not in there. He calls down to Mrs Hudson, and sighs when she’s gone as well.

It’s been a while since Sherlock has gone off without telling John. John’s not his _minder,_ it shouldn’t be a problem, but Sherlock tends to get himself into the worst of scrapes precisely when he’s forgotten to tell John where he’s going next.

John sighs, and follows regular protocol by texting Lestrade.

**Sherlock with you? JW**

**No, mate, sorry. Good luck! GL**

Lestrade is used to these things, and John smiles at the good luck, before texting Mycroft a second later.

**Status update? JW**

**What have you done? MH**

The text makes him blink at the tone of accusation. He’s not done anything that he knows of. The night before had been… well, it had been lovely, actually, with John and Sherlock having a film night, cuddling on the sofa with Sherlock’s head in his lap as he played with his curls (very, very gently, Sherlock doesn’t like having his hair tugged unless he asks for it, and he rarely asks for it). Sherlock had bid him goodnight, which John took as the regular dismissal, because normally if Sherlock wanted John in his bed, it meant a tug on his clothing, or a meaningful look or three when he thought he was being subtle.

All in all, John can’t remember anything he might have done to upset or otherwise ruin Sherlock’s time. He frowned, texting back.

**Nothing. I’ve gone to bed and got up, and he’s not here. JW**

**My brother, Doctor Watson, is fragile. I won’t have you leading him on. MH**

This actually angered him slightly.

**For one, I don’t think Sherlock would appreciate you bandying about that information. And for two, I’ve had no intention of ‘leading him on.’ JW**

The pause on the other side reminds John of the look Mycroft sometimes gives him when he’s trying to read John’s mind. It’s both amusing and terrifying, because John never really thinks he has anything to hide, but the way Mycroft looks at him makes him sometimes worry that he does and has forgotten about it.

**There is a room on Old Street, in Shoreditch. Ziferblat. I daresay you can find him in the Secret Hide-Away. MH**

**Do not hurt him. MH**

John wants to text back, “Of course not,” but he knows Mycroft won’t believe him anyway. It’s already fairly impressive that Mycroft trusts him enough to give him this information. He grabs his wallet, keys and phone, and heads out the door, only stopping by a Costa for a coffee and sandwich because he’s not got time to cook himself anything.

He muses over the texts. Leading him on. John hadn’t thought he was doing anything of the sort, but he’d also never considered being anything but exclusive. Yes, Sherlock and he may not have made that explicit, but they were _Sherlock and John._  They always come in a pair, it seems, and he’s never once thought of questioning it.

He has the sudden, sinking realisation that Sherlock probably has.

That still doesn’t explain the texts, though, because he’s done nothing to provoke jealousy, he doesn’t think. He goes over the previous night in his head again. Nope, he hadn’t even commented on any actors, or anyone else.

He bites into his sandwich and swipes his oyster into the tube station, frowning, and washes it down with coffee once he’s standing on the platform. He looks down, making a face at his shoes, and tries to rub a scuff out of one with the sole of the other. He only makes it worse before looking up as the train pulls in.

Sherlock _is_ fragile. Mycroft had that right. John doesn’t think Mycroft knows that Sherlock’s fragility has nothing to do with his level and more to do with inexperience, and the gentle innocence he offers himself with. Sherlock has had _relationships_ , but he hasn’t had _love,_  John believes, and then realises exactly what’s wrong, what he’s forgotten to do.

God, he’s an idiot.

It’s a mantra as he goes from the station to Ziferblat, thudding with each footstep, and he only feels stupider when he goes past the door to the place about six times, missing it every time, looking right past it. It’s small, and in the end, he’s walking the wrong direction, looks it up on his phone, turns around and realises it’s right across the road. He gulps down his coffee and stuffs the empty sandwich packaging inside the empty cup, crossing the street and going up into the building.

He’d rather expected to walk into the place, but instead, it’s a stairwell. The second landing has a loo, and he tosses his rubbish in the bin there before going up to the desk. The girl there has pink hair. John gives his name and his card, not really concerned about what he’s even paying for, looking around for Sherlock.

The room is a chaotic, open space with tables and sofas, things hung haphazardly on the walls, bookshelves filled with books and games and a box that says in permanent marker, “Oh My Gosh Lego!” There’s a globe, a typewriter, a random cupboard of clocks, and John smiles when he realises what the establishment reminds him of: the chaotic homeyness of Baker Street. No wonder Sherlock knows of this place. It’s a bit too ‘hip’ for John, reminds him of uni students, but it’s still open enough to feel inviting.

He steps in further, thinking he’ll have to search for the Secret Hide-Away, but it’s labelled. Quite literally, a door with “Secret Hide-Away” is to the right of the desk, and he bites his lip, knocking on it gently, hoping Mycroft’s right and he’s not interrupting some kid’s zen session. But the quiet voice from inside is one he recognises.

“Occupied,” is all Sherlock says, and he sounds stuffed up, like he’s congested, or been crying, and John feels even stupider. He looks up at the girl who let him in, and explains in a very quiet voice that won’t go through the door, “I’m his boyfriend. May I? He’s been missing for a bit, I want to check on him. I’ll leave if he doesn’t want me in.”

She pauses and then nods once, hesitantly, and John carefully opens the door, slipping in and shutting it quietly. Sherlock is on a cot. He doesn’t look up- just buries his head under a blanket instead of saying anything.

John licks his lips, braces his shoulders, and bites the bullet. “You can kick me out if you like, but I realised I’d forgotten to tell you something, and I ought to have told you ages ago. Since… well. Probably since the Club, actually.” The capital on _Club_  is audible.

Sherlock makes a quiet noise that breaks John’s heart, and it’s the motivation behind his bravery as he says earnestly, “I love you. Have been, loving you, I mean. For ages. I realised I hadn’t told you, and that was. Fairly stupid of me. I’m sorry. But you should know that I do. Love you.” He pauses, and adds awkwardly, “That’s all,” before waiting for Sherlock’s response, heart thudding.

Sherlock’s very quiet and then takes the blanket away. His face is tear-streaked as John expected, and John goes to his knees next to the little cot, stroking a hand gently (so gently) through his hair, because Sherlock doesn’t like having his hair tugged unless he asks for it, and he rarely asks for it.

John can feel his own heartbeat in his ears. Sherlock’s breathing is ragged, and then he shoves his head onto John’s shoulder, leaving a smear of wet on John’s neck, and breathes in and out, in and out. John holds him, soft and warm, and loves him.

**Author's Note:**

> Ziferblat is a real place. You pay by the minute, and there's food and drinks, games and all kinds of other things, free for as long as you stay. The Secret Hide-Away is also real.
> 
> The title is a play on "You Are Jeff", because I'm back to Richard Siken. Particularly the last stanza, which reads (quoting here, no copyright infringement intended):  
> *You're in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won't tell you that he loves  
> you, but he loves you. And you feel like you've done something terr-  
> ible, like robbed a liquor store, or swallowed pills, or shoveled yourself  
> a grave in the dirt, and you're tired. You're in a car with a beautiful boy,  
> and you're trying not to tell him that you love him, and you're trying to  
> choke down the feeling, and you're trembling, but he reaches over and  
> he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your  
> heart taking root in your body, like you've discovered something you  
> don't even have a name for.*


End file.
